The Watson Case
by RissaCay
Summary: "The Watsons never did sell their home in the hopes of their children one day returning. But eventually, their story fell out of the news, replaced by celebrity sex scandals and natural disasters occurring in other parts of the world. Soon, Johnathan and Harriet's faces blended in with the other missing kids on those printed flyers that hung in the super market." Teen!lock AU
1. Chapter 1

The newspapers reported the alleged abduction of Johnathan and Harriet Watson on April 6th, 2007. Johnathan was ten years of age and Harriet four. The siblings lived in a modest suburb that hadn't seen any crime beyond the occasional stolen lawn ornament. According to their mother Janice Watson, who called the police within minutes of their disappearance, the children had wandered a few feet from their yard in pursuit of a rabbit. The authorities sent out a search party, an investigation was undergone, but the lack of evidence and suspects lead to a fruitless investigation conclusion a few months later. The Watsons never did sell their home in the hopes of their children one day returning. But eventually, their story fell out of the news, replaced by celebrity sex scandals and natural disasters occurring in other parts of the world. Soon, Johnathan and Harriet's faces blended in with the other missing kids on those printed flyers that hung in the super market.

Sherlock Holmes, who lived up the road in the richer neighborhood nearby, remembered Johnathan—_John _Watson from his class. The boy had sandy brown hair and played tetherball real well. Girls blushed when he was nearby, and he was named student of the week a few days before he disappeared.

Sherlock remembered that once, John Watson got in trouble on the bus for being loud, and the bus driver had punished him by making him sit in the very front, next to Sherlock. Neither of the boys had spoken to each other throughout the duration of the trip. John left to join his friends when the bus came to a stop, and that was the closest Sherlock had ever gotten to the boy.

A few days after the Watson children went missing, Mrs. Pickering explained that something very unfortunate had happened. She told them that sometimes, very bad things happen to very good people, and then the class proceeded to watch a video about "stranger danger". It was the topic of whispered conversation on the playground for a while, and the girls who had blushed when John was near cried together in the sandbox. But then the new Marvel movie came out, and the playground stopped whispering and the girls stopped crying, and that was the end of that.

To Sherlock, John Watson went from being a boy with sandy hair who was good at tether ball to something far more interesting. John was his first mystery. His first case. Something to keep him up at night, something to investigate. Even as the evidence ran dry and the years passed, Sherlock remembered the boy who unintentionally changed him, shaped him, and motivated him: John Watson, his first puzzle.

Part 1:

Thank God for gas station markets that are open all night. Where else would a slightly depressed, slightly exhausted, teenage boy go to buy cigarettes at three in the morning?

Sherlock stepped through the door, the familiar _ding_ sounding above him. He'd come to associate the bell sound with cigarettes, and like one of Pavlov's dogs, it made his cravings grow.

He stocked up on a few packs, and the guy behind the counter didn't ask for his fake ID this time.

The ding sounded again, and Sherlock was surprised. He had never run into any other costumers this late before.

It was a boy, roughly his age, with sandy brown hair. He came in, bought a few snacks, and Sherlock followed him out of the shop. They stood nearby each other, waiting for a bus that would come in 15 minutes.

"Want one?" Sherlock offered, extended the cigs toward him.

The boy looked at the package, then up at Sherlock. "I'm okay, thanks."

"Smoking relieves stress," Sherlock noted, blowing out his first long puff. "And you've been rather stressed lately, taking care of your younger sister and all. She's what, nine years old? Ten?"

The boy seemed to see him for the first time. His eyebrows formed a V-shape. "How'd you know any of that?"

"Insomnia and poor dietary practices are both notable signs of stress," said Sherlock, as though it were the most obvious thing in the world (well, it sort of was). "I'm guessing you have a sister because, well, you don't seem the type to eat Hannah Montana fruit snacks."

John looked down at his shopping bag.

"You look familiar," Sherlock continued. "Don't I know you?"

"I don't think so," said the boy quickly.

"Where'd you go to school?"

"Home schooled."

"That would explain the poor social skills," said Sherlock softly. "But usually, parents that are protective enough to home school wouldn't let their kids wander around at three in the morning."

The boys seemed to pace with nerves. "Don't lecture _me _about poor social skills. Has anyone ever told you that you're a little too—"

"Arrogant? Invasive? Freakish? I've heard them all," Sherlock interrupted before taking another long drag.

"I was going to say observant," the boy clarified.

"Oh. I suppose that you just… interest me." Sherlock bit his tongue, unhappy with his choice of words. "What I mean is, you are very familiar, and I don't notice people, so you must be significant for one reason or another."

"Listen, I think that you're mistaking. I've never met you before. I'm sure of it. Now if you don't mind, second-hand smoke kills."

Sherlock decided not to take the bus. He walked home, his mind working madly to justify his interest in the boy with the sandy colored hair.

**_Hi everyone. I'm trying to write a different type of teen!lock fic, more serious subject matters. I hope you enjoy it. Reviews would be very welcomed!_**


	2. Chapter 2

Sherlock wasn't sure what he hated more: the idea of school—shoving a bunch of adolescents into rows within rooms where they are force-fed knowledge, _or_ the actual practice of school—waking up early, listening to teachers, writing useless essays on useless subjects that nobody is likely to ever read.

But by far, the worst aspect of the educational system came in the form of "partner projects".

Sherlock exhaled slowly. Before he was finished letting out his breath, little Molly Hooper spun around in her seat.

"Do you want to be my partner, Sherlock?"  
Sherlock agreed out of a lack of better options.

"Great. Well, I tutor some kids on Thursdays after school, so is it possible to get started tonight?"

"I'll be at your house by six."

"You don't… uh, know where I live."

Sherlock barely refrained from rolling his eyes. Why couldn't anyone ever see how _obvious_ they were? "You live in the mobile homes a few blocks from here."

"How—"

"Did I know that? You ride a bike to school. I can tell by the way you arrive to French with your hair windswept, despite your best efforts. So I could eliminate every neighborhood that is detached by a freeway. You love books. You're always reading something, aren't you? But they're always borrowed from the library. If you had the money, you'd buy your own. Not to mention you're lack of name brand clothing. The trailer park wasn't too much of a leap."

"Oh," said Molly, a bit flushed. "I didn't think anyone noticed things like that about me."

"You read books, and I read people," Sherlock said a bit smugly.

"Right, well, it's the first street, home 338."

"Uh-huh," said Sherlock, snapping his English literature textbook shut. The bell wasn't meant to ring for another five minutes or so, but Sherlock hoped that the gesture would signify his disinterest in anymore small talk.

…..

Sherlock arrived 42 minutes late to Molly's house. She still answered the door readily, and appeared a bit shocked to see him standing there. She probably assumed twenty minutes prior that Sherlock had ditched her. She seemed the type of girl to be ditched often.

Everything about Molly Hooper was sort of depressing, Sherlock thought as he swept into the poorly lit two-bedroom home. Her hair never held its machine-made curls and fell lifelessly onto her shoulders. Her clothes were dull, mostly because bright colors would wash her out. Not to mention she maintained the figure of a twelve year old, and looked prepubescent despite having put on extra make-up for their encounter. (_What was the point of _that?) Sherlock knew that Molly was in all of his advanced classes, though she struck nobody as the intelligent type. She was also probably in those sports or clubs that accept anyone who show up. It wasn't that Molly was bad-looking, or even unpleasant to be around, but to Sherlock she was just sort of the epitome of boring and desperate.

Though, it must say a little something about Sherlock that Molly was one of the only kids in school that would talk to him.

"Do you want anything to drink?" she offered sweetly.

"Have any coffee?"

"Yeah, sure. Bit late for caffeine though. It'll kick-in when you try to sleep tonight," she noted.

"I don't _sleep_," Sherlock grunted, as if the last word were a dirty one. "Sleeping is tedious."

"That doesn't sound very healthy," she said, entering the kitchen.

"Neither is your doleful obsession with Robert Pattison," Sherlock muttered beneath his breath.

"What was that?" She called.

"I said black, two sugars please!" he replied.

Sherlock took a seat on the couch. He was greeted by a hairless cat with a pink bow wrapped around its head. Like everything else in the trailer, it looked miserable. "I regret to inform you that your cat may be inside-out."

Molly laughed, returning from the kitchen with a coffee mug and a plate of imitation-name-brand biscuits. "I'm allergic to animal fur," she explained, although Sherlock had already come to that conclusion. She sat beside him on the couch.

"Okay, so the instructions say that we have to do a modern adaption of our play," she went on.

_Oh, hell,_ thought Sherlock. He hated these excruciatingly "fun" assignments. He quickly did the math in his head, calculating what his grade in the class would be if he skipped this project.

Molly handed him the coffee and biscuits. Her doe-like eyes appeared brighter from the eye-shadow, he noticed.

Sherlock frowned. Too late in the game to bail on her now, he decided.

"What play did we get stuck with?"

"Romeo and Juliet," she chirped happily.

"How unfortunate."

"I don't know, I'd rather take romance over a gore fest like Macbeth."

Sherlock rolled his eyes. "Romeo and Juliet isn't a romance, it's a tragedy," he said. "It's a love story between irrational teenagers that lasts a few days and results in six deaths. It's a commentary, I think, on the idiocracy of sentiment."

"That's one way to look at it," she mused. "But I think Shakespeare also speaks to the power of emotion. I mean, love and hate are clearly the most powerful forces in driving the plot. So if you ignore the feuding families, the story becomes a passionate romance… but were the play the opposite, well, it'd be another story of tragic violence like Macbeth or something. I think the beauty lies in the combination. I mean, from the beginning we're told that our leads will die, and yet we hope that their relationship will last, that they'll be okay and happy. So many stories copy Shakespeare's formula. It's like… love in the midst of misfortune."

Sherlock wasn't used to anyone arguing his analysis, and yet Molly had. Without really thinking too hard about it, her words sounded clever and pretty. It caught Sherlock by surprise.

"Your logic is sound enough, but how will we convey that in a modern context?"

Molly checked the paper instructions. "It says we can create video or perform live. Must be an adaption of a 2-3 minute scene. All group members must be in the scene/video."

Sherlock let out a long breath.

"Not your cup of tea, I'm guessing," she said. "Don't worry, I can write the script, and I'll try not to make it too embarrassing. You can… make props or something."

Sherlock nodded, hating to be as useless as he was. They ended up spending the next half hour in near-silence, reviewing the play for ideas. Sherlock's attention was diverted by a dog barking just outside the window.

It was dark out by then. Faint light from porches and windows lit the street, but only vaguely. Sherlock could make out the figure of a boy. He was probably the reason the dog had been barking, and he seemed flustered to have called attention to himself, even if it were just a yapping Pomeranian.

He walked like a person who did not want to be seen walking. He got a little closer, and Sherlock was hit by recognition.

"Molly, that guy outside. Do you know him?"

Molly, caught by surprise, glanced out the window.

"Erm, yeah. He lives down the block. Bit closed off. His whole family is. Why?"

"Which house, exactly?"

"The one right at the end of the street, I think. Broken mailbox. Why do you ask?"

"No reason," Sherlock answered. He knew this response wouldn't satisfy Molly's curiosity, but fortunately, she didn't press the matter any further.

Sherlock forced himself to read on.

_Did my heart love till now? Forswear it, sight! For I ne'er saw true beauty till this night_

…

Mycroft always attributed Sherlock's obsessive interests to his autism. Sherlock would then reply with something along the lines of "better to have obsessive impulses to learn than obsessive impulses to eat cake."

But Sherlock begrudgingly thought about his brother's warnings as he walked down the dark street. He knew it wasn't wise to go snooping around some boy's home based on an odd hunch.

But it was a _colossal_ hunch, the type of hunch to make all other hunches quiver in fear. The Goliath of hunches, really.

At least, that was how Sherlock justified it to himself as he approached the mobile home at the end of the block.

The mailbox was snapped at the neck. Sherlock examined the broken thing. There were no clear weather marks, rain damage or the likes. Whoever did this seemed to have done it almost intentionally, he decided, based on the cleanness of the wound.

Perhaps someone doesn't want mail.

Hidden by darkness, Sherlock walked around the outside of the home. It was very poorly taken care of, he noted: weeds in the grass, faded paint, cracks in the window frames.

Sherlock made mental notes of everything. It struck Sherlock as strange that this didn't look like an inhabited homes, and most certainly not by anyone young.

The boy had a 10 year old sister, so where were the bikes and scooters in the small yard? Or the classroom-made wind-chime that hangs from the porch?

There was also no garage, no cars parked in the space available.

This home didn't just look poor, thought Sherlock, it looked forlorn, neglected, unhomely to the highest degree…

"What the hell?" came a fierce whisper

Sherlock spun around on his heels. He hadn't exactly been avoiding the return of the boy. In fact, he left Molly's house at a time he thought would ensure the boy's return.

"Out of fruit snacks?" Sherlock smirked down at the boy's grocery bag.

"I…" the boy closed his mouth, confused. "Listen, I don't know why you're here, but you need to go."

"Why?"

"Because this is private property!" he warned.

"And if I don't…"

"_Please."_

"Interesting," Sherlock noted. Usually, someone would threaten to call the cops at this sort of encounter. But this boy resolved to pleading.

"I only want to talk," said Sherlock.

"Fine," said John, "just not here."

**Hey! Please review and tell me what you think J **


	3. Chapter 3

The duo walked down the road in near silence for quite some time. Sherlock craved a cigarette, but refrained after remembering how smoking displeased the boy during their last encounter. The night was getting chilly. Sherlock popped his collar up, and found himself wishing that the boy were wearing more than just a light jumper. That type of thinking wasn't usual for him. He would hate to be a noisy worry-wart like his brother.

"Since you didn't ask, my name's Sherlock," he said.

"Hamish."

"_Hamish,_" Sherlock mused. The name didn't quite taste right. "Well, Hamish, you haven't eaten today, but I think that diner downtown should still be open."

Hamish paused. "It's a little weird you know… this, stalking business."

"I do not stalk. I observe, okay? And it's simply not that hard to tell. You have the sort of stalky body type that wouldn't be so thin unless you were malnourished, and I heard your stomach roar like the King of bloody Narnia a block back. Now, I know you spent your money on those snacks for your sister, so I'm buying you dinner."

"You're pretty kind. For a stalker, that is," said Hamish.

"I am not a stalker! Listen, _I _happen to be a detective."

"A detective?" Hamish said skeptically, but warmly (he had a way of making everything sound strangely warm, Sherlock noticed.) "You're only what, 15?"

"I'm 17."

"Right. Great. Does the government care so little about me that they throw my case onto an intern?" he joked.

"I'm more… freelance," Sherlock clarified.

"Oh, even better then! Has it ever occurred to you that there's a reason nobody other than a 'freelance kid detective' has ever looked into me before? I'm just an ordinary bloke. That's all. Just a bloke who buys fruit snacks for his sister. This is all just…mad. I should go."

Sherlock caught him by the shoulder. Hamish half-spun, half-cringed at the contact. But when the shorter teen established his footing, he also established his eye-contact.

"Hamish," said Sherlock calmly, holding his gaze. "I'm here because there's something you can't tell me, something you can't tell anyone. You'll keep your mouth shut to protect your sister, isn't that right? Because love's a viscous motivator, you won't tell. Lucky for you, I will figure it out, and you don't have to say a thing. All you have to do is join me for dinner."

Hamish stared back at him back for a long time, long enough for Sherlock to appreciate the mix of colors in his eyes. He somehow knew that this was the moment Hamish was deciding whether or not he trusted the lengthy stranger. After the most uncomfortable silence of the night, Hamish finally said, "Alright, Nancy Drew, but only because I heard the raspberry maple syrup there's delicious."

Sherlock laughed. "Then shall we?"

…..

"Red head behind the counter, naturally brunette, is a recovering anorexic. She moved out of her abusive fiancé's house and into her grandmother's, who got her this job from an old bowling friend."

Hamish glanced at the attractive lady serving an old trucker a slice of pie.

"How do you figure?"

"Her clothes are hanging off her body, but they don't appear to be extremely old. I'd say by the condition of the fabric, it's been less than a year since she bought them. Recently, then, she's lost a lot of weight unnecessarily. But look at her complexion. She's healthy as of now. Her boyfriend bruised her near her collarbone, see? She's hiding the faded bruises with that orangey make-up. I also noticed when she brought the drinks that she still has the tan line on her ring finger, so she left him recently. She's glanced at that picture on the wall of the elderly bowling team approximately four times since our arrival. Oh, and her roots are beginning to show."

Sherlock smiled as Hamish's mouth hung open with amazement (also, with pancake).

"That's incredible, you know that?"

Hamish had said a variation of the word "incredible" at least 30 times since Sherlock had begun his deductions. Honestly, it was a welcomed change from the words his classmates usually spat, like "freak" or "arse".

Hamish was almost through with his third stack after Sherlock had generously ordered him endless pancakes. Sherlock, meanwhile, enjoyed his coffee.

Hamish boxed two pancakes, presumably for his sister. Sherlock paid, and then they were on their way.

"Thanks… but I really don't know how I feel about this," said Hamish, staring at the ground.

"About what?"

"About _you_, showing up out of nowhere, buying me food, telling me you'll figure out all my secrets."

Hamish's side-profile was silhouetted by the street lights. He looked… confused and conflicted. Sherlock found himself wishing there was a way he could make those concerns all vanish.

"Well, I just finished my third cup of coffee since sunset, and I'm going to take a walk through the park to avoid going home to my arse-brother. You can join, or you can return to your trailer, in which case I will promise to never bother you again."

Sherlock turned to leave, holding his breath. It was precisely four seconds later that he heard the sound of Hamish's footsteps as he followed close behind.

The park was ill-lit in an orange-ish gloom. Although Sherlock had expected a few potheads or groping teenaged couples, the park was empty.

"I haven't been here in forever," Hamish mused, running his hand along the handrail to the playground set. "My parents used to take Harry and me every Easter. You know, for that big Easter Egg Hunt."

"Never been," said Sherlock. Hamish continued up the steps and Sherlock followed.

"They make a big perimeter around the lawn with ribbon, and scatter candy and plastic eggs across the grass. But there's this one Golden Egg—this big egg covered in glitter that's sort of hidden. The person that finds it gets a special prize. I never had much of a sweet tooth, so every year I'd make it my goal to get that dumb gold egg. When I was eight, I finally got it. I swear to you, it was like the proudest moment of my life. This bloke in a bunny outfit gave me my prize, which turned out to be a SlipN'Slide, and I remember pretending he was the real thing because Harry still believed in magic back then."

Sherlock had never seen anyone's eyes look so sad and happy at the same time. "She's what, 10? She doesn't still believe in magic?"

With that, all the light disappeared from his features. Sherlock really regretted the transformation.

"Not so much," he said.

"That's okay. I never believed all that nonsense as a kid. Too illogical. And I turned out fine."

"Oh yes, luring strangers into abandoned parks after nightfall. You turned out _fine._"

Sherlock faked insult, and nudged Hamish aside as he dissented down the steps.

"Where exactly are you going?"

"The swings," said Sherlock. "Care to join me?"

"God, yes."

Hamish took a short cut, sliding down a fire-station pole. Then he took off in a sprint toward the swings, and for some unspoken reason, both the boys acknowledged the fact that they were now racing toward their destination.

Sherlock was all long limbs and flailing coat. Hamish was sturdy, athletic by nature, albeit out of shape, but he still managed to get to the swing set a fraction of a second faster.

"It was a tie," Sherlock huffed as he sat as his swing. They both laughed breathlessly.

They swung, looking but not quite feeling too big for the swing set.

"I feel like a kid," said Hamish.

"I feel like an idiot," Sherlock confessed.

Sherlock spent a lot of time alone at night, in places like parks and restaurants and sometimes bars. He watched the playground rise up and down, listened to the squeaking of the swing in tune with Hamish's rapid breathing. And regardless of temperature, the night felt warmer somehow.

Eventually, Sherlock couldn't resist it any longer. He skidded his heels along the sand to slow the swing to a stop, and lit a cigarette.

"It feels like I've known you longer than I have," said Hamish suddenly. He wasn't looking at Sherlock. He was looking across the park, as if there were something there. Something more than a crescent moon and bus stop.

"I know the feeling."

"Did you… uh, finish your detective work? Or can we do this again?"

Sherlock smirked. "Tomorrow night?"

"Eager?" Hamish smiled.

"To further my investigation, yes of course."  
Hamish laughed and stood up, flattening out the kinks in his tattered jeans. "I really need to get back."

"Right. The bus should be at the stop in a minute or so."

Hamish nodded. Sherlock new waiting for the bus would take longer than walking, which seemed appealing. He didn't want to leave the park or to go back to his house. At least, that's what he told himself, despite the all-too-logical knowledge that Hamish might have had something to do with his hesitation to depart.

Over the past few hours or so, Sherlock had effortlessly learned a good deal about the boy: his favorite foods, books, and taste in music. He deduced some things too, like how he never shared recent memories nor talk about friends the way a normal teenagers would. He was simply _different_ than the people Sherlock new, less obvious perhaps. Sherlock didn't need to spend every moment reading him, as he would a book. More often than not, Sherlock found himself admiring the sandy-haired boy as one would a work of art: beautiful and layered and waiting to be figured out.

Maybe it was clouding his judgment in the case.

When the bus finally arrived, it was empty, so Sherlock and Hamish took a seat near the middle. When Hamish slid in, Sherlock wasn't sure whether he was expected to sit beside him or across from him. He chose the prior, and watched Hamish look out the window.

Maybe it was the silence of the bus, the presence of the bus driver, or the late hour, but the awkwardness finally began to creep in, and the boys remained non-talkative for most of the ride.

And _finally, _finally Sherlock could think clearly. Finally he could work through all the anomalies he'd deduced about his new rag-tag companion, and almost as suddenly as the bus came to a jerking stop a mile later, did Sherlock come to a realization.

He left the bus with a spring in his step. As a person, the boy had been a _wonder_, but as a case, things were finally becoming interesting.

"Well it's certainly been an unusual night," said Hamish. "See you tomorrow, then?"

Still buzzed with excitement, Sherlock felt himself jolt forward, catching the smaller teen in a hug. Hamish cringed at the sudden contact, but after a long moment, wrapped his arms around Sherlock's thin shoulders.

On the norm, Sherlock hated physical interaction, (his aunt's wet kisses or a bully's shove on the playground) so he was nothing short of shocked to find himself nuzzling the boy closer. Sherlock's voice was a fierce whisper in Hamish's ear. "See you tomorrow, John Hamish Watson." He planted a quick kiss onto John's temple before detaching. With a wink, he disappeared around the corner, leaving John awed in his wake.

**_Yay! This fic is so challenging but fun to write. I'd really love your opinions! And perhaps recommend it to a friend, since I feel like this fic isn't getting much attention. Anyhoo, thanks for reading! _**


	4. Chapter 4

"You seem rather cheerful tonight," Molly remarked.

Sherlock hadn't realized he was painting the backdrop with such mirth.

"Have special plans?" she went on.

Sherlock rolled his eye, but allowed himself to indulge in the conversation. "I do, in fact. I'm seeing my friend Hamish after this."

"Oh," said Molly, smiling confusedly. "Old friend? Has it been a while since you've seen him?"

"We've been 'friends' for all of four days. I've had the privilege of seeing him each night since we met."

"Wow… you must have really hit it off then."

Sherlock grinned. He had never felt so delighted to talk about anyone else before in his life, and his mind suddenly ran through the past few nights as he picked and chose what information to supply Molly with.

…

Their second night together, Sherlock had treated John to the nicest restaurant in town that was open late. John had tried searching for the cheapest item on the menu, which made Sherlock laugh. Sherlock ended up deducing his companion's choice of meal by examining the amount of times he swallowed when certain trays of food passed by: lobster tail with veggies and a baked potato, everything on it. Sherlock ate this time too, ordering himself veil and French onion soup.

When the food came, smelling tantalizingly good to both boys, John just stared fixedly.

"Everything to your liking?" asked Sherlock, suddenly self-conscious over his friend's apparent lack of appetite.

"It's just… I really shouldn't let you pay for all this."

Sherlock exhaled. "I have more money than I know what do with. I don't deserve it. I didn't earn a penny of it. But it's still there, waiting to be spent. So I either feed you, which makes me happy, or buy pot or something which makes me only mildly content."

This helped, and John ate what must have been his finest meal in a decade. When he was done, his whole demeanor seemed abashed in a glow of deep satisfaction.

They walked roughly two miles home. Neither of the boys minded the walk because it gave them time to kill together.

"Sherlock?" said John meagerly.

"Hmm?" Sherlock had been distracted, thinking about a case he'd seen on the news.

"How did you… figure me out?"

Sherlock had been waiting for this question. "You seemed familiar. Not in the I've-seen-you-before sort of way. More like, how you felt last night at the park… you know, like when you return to a place that you haven't seen since your youth, and you get this unsettling nostalgia, like part of you is a kid experiencing it all again."

"Poetic," John mocked.

"I've been reading bloody Shakespeare all day, okay?" Sherlock growled. "Now, factually, of course I needed more evidence to draw any assumptions. You act only in the night, and you act on behalf of your sister. You're protective and secretive, which is a sure-fire sign that you and your sister are in a parentless and threatening situation. You cringe at loud noises and unexpected physical contact, and although you hide them pretty well beneath those old jumpers of yours, your scars are a clue as to the environment you live in. Although you're very delicate and neat, your clothing is still old and worn, which tells me you hardly every purchase new clothes. Your trailer doesn't receive mail. When looked upon, it shows no signs of housing children. Sometimes, no evidence _is _the evidence that someone's hiding something. You said you were homeschooled, but like I mentioned before, you don't have a curfew or show any signs of having a parent caring enough to home school you. What's more, you haven't any friends. You never speak of them, and you wouldn't want to be around me if you did. Trust me. You're sheltered, but not in the loving way. In the abusive way. You smell a bit like alcohol and tobacco, though you don't drink or smoke. Your skin looks as though it never sees the sun. No offense. Someone, then, is hiding you, drinking and smoking around you, hitting you, not feeding or dressing you well, and forbidden you from most normal activities. You've been kidnapped, I figured, by a very disturbed man with unclear motives. I haven't told anybody because I figured you have a pretty good reason to keep it a secret…I… didn't know it was _you, _the John Watson I went to primary school with, until we sat together on that bus and I had a personal flashback to my youth. You'll recall, the closest we got was once you were forced to sit beside me. When you disappeared, I was enthralled in the mystery of it. You know I do detective work now, but I use to consider you my first case…"

Sherlock had spoken quickly and curtly, and he paused to allow John the time to process it all.

With one long breath, he finally said. "You know about my… situation, then. Please, _please _don't try to interfere just yet."

"I just want you safe, John—"

"I need you to stop trying to solve this," he cut in firmly, "for now, at least. Please."

For the first time, Sherlock saw tears glisten in the corners of John's eyes. Sherlock had seen children cry, even hormonal teens cry, but it was something different on John. John, who was a _man _forced to abandon childhood long ago; his tears were something different.

"Okay, John. Anything."

John swallowed, wiped them away, and Sherlock caught his hand on its dissent back to his side.

…

Their second night together, Sherlock had managed to get John and himself into a pub. It was a run-downed place, with flickering lights and poor security procedures. A thick and unappetizing smell of tobacco and ail hung in the air. The boys sat out of the way and ordered one beer to split (which Sherlock ended up drinking due to John's resistance). Mostly, Sherlock entertained his new friend by making deductions about everyone who walked in.

"That man over there comes here approximately three times a week to kill some time. He's hoping that his absence will make his wife assume he's having an affair in order to spite her for sleeping with a coworker. He doesn't really have the gull to cheat, however, because he's still wearing his ring. Presumably, he still loves her and wants their relationship to last.

That drunk in the red will be cut off soon. He drinks as a means of easing the pain over the loss of his four year old daughter. She was sick with cancer. That was an easy one. One only needs to look at his tattoos and drinking patterns.

That younger looking guy in the corner is only here because he hasn't enough courage yet to go to a gay bar. But, as a flaming homosexual, he's been eyeing you since we walked in. He doesn't have the confidence to act on his desires, and he happens to think that you and I are a couple anyway."

"Now that's unbelievable," said John, turning pink.

"It's all true, really, those deductions were elementary," said Sherlock, pretending to sound more bored than he really was.

"Incredible," John breathed.

They continued on, and even after John went home, his compliments still left a ghost of a smile on Sherlock's lips.

…..

On their third night, John really wanted to visit this 24-hour sea-side arcade his mum took him to as a kid. They rode a cab to the town, only to find out the arcade had been torn down years prior. Therefore instead, the boys walked across the shore.

The moon reflected bright and auburn on the turning water. The air and mist created a chilly slap to the skin, and Sherlock pulled his scarf tighter around his neck, wanting to offer John his coat. But John would only say no out of a combination of consideration and pride, and Sherlock figured the act would be cliché anyway.

"Tell me a secret."

"What?"

John smirked. "Tell me a secret. It's only fair. You've figure all mine out."

Sherlock shrugged. "I don't know. I'm an open book."

"Bull shit."

Sherlock laughed and stared across the water. "Oh, fine. Fine. I see…"

"Dead people?" John guessed after Sherlock's long pause.

Sherlock let out a snort-like giggle he didn't know he was capable of. "Oh, yes, because I'm not bizarre enough already."

"You and me both," John added jokingly. "So you see…?"

"A psychiatrist," he exhaled. "As a kid, I went into silent spells that lasted months on end. They worried my parents, which was silly, because honestly I just didn't have anything to say. I was just noticing, beginning to develop my skills at deduction, so I didn't talk much."

"That might be why I hardly remember you as a kid."

"Yes, well, their incessant need for labels led to my diagnosis as a high-functioning autistic. The whole ordeal sort of out casted me, but I don't mind it, to be honest. I never wanted friends anyhow."

"You don't seem… erm, to have any problems being social with me."

"Because you were a part of a case, and I don't have trouble with those."

"Oh," said John disappointedly. Sherlock bit his tongue.

"I didn't mean… I said _were_. I'm quite taken by you now. Then again, you're not exactly normal company."

"I suppose not. So do you still see your psychiatrist?"

"Last year, I began up again upon my brother's insistence."

"Why's that?"

"Apparently, I'm _emotionally_ unstable with near _suicidal_ tendencies." Sherlock said this almost proudly. "Tack that on with a disinterest in societal functions, childhood trauma, and a lack of empathy for others, and they'll be trying to dissect my brain for years."

"Huh, okay, so you're a nutter then, nice to know," said John. "What was the childhood trauma?"

Sherlock rolled his eyes. "I was teased relentlessly in boarding school, which is why I switched. Wouldn't have met you if I stayed, so there's your silver lining," he mused. "Honestly, you're a better poster-boy for childhood trauma."

"Thanks. You can be the poster child from charmingly weird stalkers, if you want."

"All I heard was charming," said Sherlock. This made John laugh. Something about John's merriment, mixed with the dark churning of the waves and peacefulness of the night, made Sherlock realize he was more content now than he'd been in ages. Even on the dull and littered shore, Sherlock felt a profound sort of happiness.

Sherlock was never the sort to leave well enough alone, so instead, he thought long and hard about John's pleasurable company. The thing was, Sherlock didn't _like_ people, but for some reason he liked John. Quite a bit too. Quite a bit more than Sherlock knew he was ever capable of feeling. Sherlock had long-since written himself off as a different breed than other teens, but John Watson was refreshingly unique. He was simple by nature, odd by situation, but incredibly and beautifully fascinating by… well, by himself. By being John, the boy with the jumpers and the sandy hair. Why the averageness of John felt so different and new, Sherlock couldn't describe. He found himself hating all these contradictions that he couldn't make out.

_Is this how normal people feel at a constant?_ Sherlock wondered.

"If you think any harder, your brain just might explore," said John, pulling Sherlock from his thoughts and back onto the tangible sand.

"I'm capable of a lot of thinking, if you haven't noticed."

"What are you thinking about?"

"You."

"What…erm, what about me exactly?"

"Your lips."

"My lips?"

"They look rather blue from the cold, and, erm… I'd be a willing participant should you desire to warm them through friction and—"

But Sherlock lost his train of thought when John stopped walking. "I don't think that's a good idea," he said quietly.

"Right. Of course. I mean, it was merely an alternative prevention to frostbite but I—"

But Sherlock was unable to finish, as he was caught off guard by John's sudden disregard of his own advice. He pressed forward, pulling Sherlock closer by the collar of his coat.

More contradictions.

But John's lips were cool, firm, and salty from the sea air, in what turned out to be a fleeting, nervous kiss.

When John withdrew, his cheeks were noticeably pink, even in the darkness.

Sherlock swallowed. "Ithinkyou'rebrilliant," he mumbled quickly.

John let out a relieved breath, then pulled Sherlock in again for a proper kiss. Their pace was slow, and Sherlock tried to commit every bit of John to memory. But eventually, he lost track, drowned in the sensation of tongue pressed to tongue and his companion's hands running up the length of his arms and shoulders. John's smell, the softness of his hair, and the strength of his hold made Sherlock's brain stop, a sensation that was all together new and exquisite to Sherlock.

They kissed like they were starved of affection and, at long last, getting their fill.

**Hope you enjoyed this chapter. Lots of fluff. Please review.**


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